


The Word You See

by ladyblahblah



Series: Cry Havoc 'verse [3]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Cry Havoc 'verse, Derek is a Failwolf, M/M, Pack Feels, Slow Build, food is meaningful to werewolves, poor communication skills
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-21
Updated: 2013-01-21
Packaged: 2017-11-26 07:48:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 11,863
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/648236
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ladyblahblah/pseuds/ladyblahblah
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <em>“Derek speaks in another language, in action and deed and the spaces between his words when he can be bothered to use them at all; in his eyes and the set of his mouth, in all the things he doesn’t say.  And Stiles, who used words for so long as a weapon, as a shield, has grown fluent in silences, in reading the truths that Derek says without speaking and offering his own up in return. “</em>
</p><p>When you’re both terrified of saying the wrong thing, sometimes you don’t say anything at all.  Luckily, actions speak louder than words.  A stumbling love story in five parts.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> My Mini Bang for the 2012/2013 Teen Wolf Superbang. This is a series of four prequel scenes and one sequel scene to my Big Bang, _Cry Havoc_ , which will be up two days from the date of this posting. The art for this piece was done by the lovely [futuresoon](http://futuresoon.livejournal.com/tag/art) and will be added in when her post is up. ^_^
> 
> This story also has a scene in common with _As Certain Dark Things Are To Be Loved_ ; the scene in that story, however, was edited to fit the length of the fanfic competition and therefore varies slightly from what's here. Hopefully this won't be too confusing; just put it down to the differences between Derek's memory and Stiles's. xD
> 
> Check out the art that the lovely [futuresoon](http://www.futuresoon.livejournal.com) did for this story [here](http://futuresoon.livejournal.com/558686.html)!

 

 

 

“Are you sure about this?” Scott's eyeing the ingredients arrayed on the counter like he's afraid they might explode; Stiles just rolls his eyes as he checks the sheet he's holding one more time. “We could just get takeout again.”

 

“Absolutely not. Look, I agreed to host this little gathering so that we didn't have to squat in that creepy-ass train station again—”

 

“Hey!” Erica protests, and Stiles shoots her a look.

 

“Please. We'd all rather have a place with central heating and actual chairs where we can talk about how we're probably all going to be horribly murdered in the next few days; so we can do this here, but only if we do it this way, because if I have to have pizza or Chinese or burgers one more night, I'm gonna throw up. Got it?”

 

He casts a glare around the room, daring anyone to argue with him. There are a lot of ducked heads and shuffling feet; no one, apparently, is eager to argue and risk getting kicked out of the nice warm house. No one, that is, until Jackson snorts out a sigh, and really, Stiles should've known that this wouldn't go as smoothly as he'd hoped.

 

“Look, whatever. You can play Happy Homemaker in here if you want; I'm gonna go watch the game, call me when dinner's—”

 

“I don't think so.” To everyone's surprise, Derek pushes himself away from the wall, grabs Jackson by the nape of the neck as he heads for the door, and spins him back around. He hauls Jackson in in a way that might seem friendly if you weren't looking too close; Derek's smile is all teeth, and Jackson's eyes are wide and alarmed in a way that means that Derek's claws are probably pressed against his skin. “There aren't any free rides here; you're going to stay in the kitchen, and you're going to pull your weight.” He gives Jackson a little shove back towards the center of the room and turns his stare on everyone else. “That goes for all of you. Stiles, what needs doing?”

 

“Um.” For a moment he simply stands there, and he knows he's gaping like an idiot and probably undermining every last shred of the authority that Derek's just bestowed on him, but he can't quite get his brain to properly engage. Finally Scott elbows him in the ribs, and Stiles jumps, and the flutter of the pages in his hand calls his attention back to the recipe he's still holding. “Right! Uh, there isn't really a lot. I need to brown the meat, so I guess if someone wants to cut up the onion, and maybe stuff for the salad . . .?”

 

“I'll do that,” Lydia volunteers, sitting up a little straighter. “Allison and I will do the salad and set the table.”

 

“We—um, yeah. Okay.” Allison swallows her confusion at the insistent look Lydia sends her. “Sure, we can do that.”

 

“All right.” Stiles checks his sheet again. “Honestly, there isn't much more to do; I picked chili because it's mostly just dumping stuff in a pot and letting it cook for an hour.”

 

“Okay, then.” Derek crosses his arms and stares down the others who are all milling around hopefully. “I guess that means the rest of you are on KP duty.”

 

Boyd grumbles under his breath and Isaac looks mutinous; Erica's rolling her eyes at Scott, who's giving Stiles his best puppy-dog impression as if he thinks Stiles has any sway over Derek's decisions and can miraculously save him from dishpan hands. Stiles notices Lydia and Allison giving each other a surreptitious fist bump behind everyone's backs.

 

“Look, whatever, but anyone who's not actively helping, clear out, okay?” Stiles says. “This kitchen's really not big enough for everyone loitering in here all at once.”

 

There's the clatter of stampeding feet as the others beat a hasty retreat, grumbling to each other and themselves, and Stiles takes a deep breath. The prospect of cooking for a horde of hungry werewolves seems less intimidating when said werewolves aren't breathing down his neck. He can do this. At the very least, he doubts he can screw up so badly it'll be worse than the crap that they usually eat.

 

“All right!” Lydia says cheerfully, hopping down from her stool and crossing the room to stand next to Stiles. “Looks like Team Human is in charge of dinner tonight. You need the onions first, right?”

 

“Right,” Stiles confirms. “It's gotta go in with the ground beef, so—”

 

“Excellent. Allison, you do that part, all right?”

 

“Why me?” Allison demands.

 

“Because it'll make my eyes water, and my makeup will run.” Lydia tosses her the onions before she picks up the knife and cutting board, carrying them over to the kitchen table.

 

“So will mine!”

 

They continue to argue while Stiles rolls his eyes and switches on the radio, tuned to the local oldies station because with everyone's various musical tastes it's the only one that no one will bitch about too loudly. He's hauling the largest skillet he has out of one of the lower cabinets when he straightens again and finds Derek standing less than two feet away.

 

“ _Jesus_!” Stiles collapses against the counter, free hand pressed to his chest over his racing heart. “Would you _stop_ doing that?”

 

“Doing what?” Derek frowns.

 

“That . . .” Stiles gestures expansively, smugly gratified when Derek has to break his cool to dart back or risk getting brained by the skillet Stiles is still holding. “That _skulking_ thing, where you just appear out of nowhere.”

 

Now Derek just looks baffled. “I've been in the room this entire time.”

 

“Yeah, well.” Stiles huffs, makes a shooing motion. “Step back from the stove, would you? I've gotta get this heating.”

 

Derek complies and Stiles sets the skillet on to heat, doing his best to ignore how close Derek is still standing as he starts measuring out spices.

 

“How are you planning on explaining this to your dad?” The question, low and genuine, catches Stiles off guard; for a moment, when he turns to meet Derek's eyes, he thinks he means . . . “It's a little unusual for a high school senior to be hosting a dinner party, isn't it?” Derek adds, and Stiles catches his breath.

 

“Yeah. Um.” He clears his throat, turning back to the relative safety of the stove. “I told him that since I'll be going off to college soon, I should probably start figuring out how to cook some basic stuff.” Stiles casts a glance over at Derek. “I asked if he'd mind me bringing my friends over as guinea pigs.”

 

“How are you gonna explain it if he finds out _I_ was over here, then?” There's something that might be a smile flirting around the edges of Derek's mouth, but Stiles still can't quite figure out if he's serious or joking, so he just rolls his eyes as he screws the cap back onto the bottle of chili powder.

 

“Don't go fishing for compliments, okay? It's obnoxious. We're . . . friends.” He glances over again. “Friend _ly_. Friendish. Whatever. Hey, how long does it take to cut up a couple of onions?” he yells over his shoulder.

 

“Coming, coming.” Allison hurries over, bearing the cutting board heaped with finely-chopped onion; Stiles's eyes start to water just looking at them. “There was some debate on the proper way to cut them.”

 

“Thanks.” Stiles dumps the ground beef and onion into the skillet, taking a moment to enjoy the loud sizzle and the scents that fill the air. “You'd probably better start on the salad now, though, if it's gonna take you guys this long.”

 

“No problem,” Allison trills, spinning around with a grin Stiles chooses not to try to interpret. Stiles casts a sidelong look Derek's way.

 

“Bet you Lydia wins out,” he mutters, and Derek snorts.

 

“Normally I'd say no bet, but it's always best to defer to Allison on any matters involving knives.”

 

Stiles braces himself for the awkwardness then, but it never quite comes. He can't help but marvel sometimes at Derek's ability to forgive and forget. If Stiles had had to guess—which, for the better part of two years was actually the case—he'd have said that Derek Hale was definitely the type to hold a grudge. And he supposes that's still true, in a way; it had taken almost a year for Derek to get past what Allison had done to Boyd and Erica, after all. But the fact that she'd tried her best to kill Derek himself was water under the bridge within a month, and Derek never seems uncomfortable around her when he's the only one on the line.

 

Freaking weirdo alpha wolf.

 

“So, I found a bunch of different recipes,” Stiles says, ignoring uncomfortable introspection in favor of stirring the meat so it doesn't burn. “They're all pretty easy, and it's all stuff that can feed a big group of people without any trouble. I figure we can all take turns cooking, whenever we have a meeting like this. It'll be good . . . I don't know, pack bonding, or whatever.”

 

“For another few months at least,” Derek nods.

 

“What, you think that's the longest we'll be able to keep this up?”

 

“You just said yourself, you'll be going off to college soon. All of you will. Hard to have pack bonding time without a pack.”

 

“Wow, you're _really_ determined to hold onto that grim outlook on life, aren't you?” Stiles rolls his eyes. “Yeah, we're gonna be leaving, but it's not like we won't be back. That's why school breaks were invented. Plus, Scott's talking about doing the vet tech program at the city college, which means he'd be staying here in town, and you know how freakishly codependent we are so I'll probably end up somewhere close by, too.” He gives the skillet a final shake and turns away to double-check the next step. “No one's really talking about it, but I think everyone else pretty much feels the same way. We don't want to leave, so stop angsting over your terrible, tragic, packless future and grab the big cast iron pot in that cabinet there, okay?”

 

Derek just blinks at him for a moment, but when Stiles makes an impatient noise he crosses to the door that Stiles is pointing at with his foot. Stiles is counting on the smells of cooking food to cover up whatever his scent might reveal about the way he's reacting to seeing Derek lift the massive dutch oven like it weighs nothing at all; instead, he focuses on hauling the skillet out of the way and dumping everything into the larger pot.

 

“Okay, so the rest of this should just be dumping and stirring. Huh. I probably should've had this pot warming already, too.” He drops the skillet into the sink and rubs absently at the itching burn where a small grease splatter caught his forearm. “Too late now, I guess.”

 

“You'll know better for next time.”

 

“Yeah. I wasn't kidding about taking turns cooking, though; I'm not gonna turn into everybody's personal chef,” he says warningly, opening the cans of beans and tomato sauce to dump in one by one.

 

“Don't worry.” Derek's leaning against the counter again, watching Stiles work with a level of fascination that seems completely out of proportion to the task at hand. “You won't have to do it on your own.”

 

“Good. And hey, speaking of division of labor.” Stiles lifts his eyebrows to shoot Derek a significant look. “What are _you_ doing to contribute, Mr. Everyone-Pulls-Their-Own-Weight?”

 

Derek shifts his weight. “I'm supervising.”

 

“Oh, no, nice try,” Stiles snickers, “but that isn't gonna cut it. You need to set a good example for your kids or you'll have a mutiny on your hands.”

 

“They're not my _kids_ ,” Derek mutters, actual honest-to-god _mutters_ , and Stiles thinks hearing that might actually make up for the supernatural shitstorm that his life has become. “Besides, I bought the ingredients.”

 

“Uh huh. So if I buy the food next time, you'll cook while I just stand around, looming and glowering?”

 

For a moment Derek goes oddly still, like Stiles has suggested something scandalous and it's taking his mind a minute to adjust. Then that hint of a smile is back, however, and the moment is gone so quickly that Stiles is left wondering if he imagined it in the first place.

 

“You probably don't want me trying,” Derek is saying, still watching Stiles mix everything together. “Hales are pretty much universally disasters in the kitchen.”

 

“Yeah?” It's the first time Derek has ever volunteered something about his family like this, and Stiles is grateful for the fact that he appears inclined to overlook the fact that Stiles's heart is racing at the sudden revelation. “Not a lot of home-cooked meals growing up?”

 

“No, there were. But only if someone from outside of the immediate family did the cooking; the rest of us were declared hazards to the process.” The look on his face is mostly fond, like he's lost in a happy memory; it's the first evidence that Stiles has seen that he has those, too. “We ate lots of sandwiches and canned soup, though even that was a little touch-and-go at times.”

 

“Right. Okay, so, no cooking duty for you.” Stiles puts the lid on the pot and adjusts the heat; the rest of the process is just letting the whole thing cook together for about an hour. “Hardly seems fair.”

 

“I'm pretty good at clean-up,” Derek offers. “So at least I can do something.”

 

“Yeah. I bet we could figure out something for you to make that wouldn't end in disaster, though.” Stiles can't just stand there, within arm's reach of Derek with nothing to occupy his hands, so he starts drifting around the room, opening cabinets at random as if he's looking for something beyond a way to avoid temptation. “I could teach you. After I learn, I mean. It doesn't seem hard; just like, edible chemistry. Which I'd be fine at as long as I didn't get distracted, you know? So, provided tonight's experiment doesn't send all of us to the hospital, maybe I can—AHA!” He catches sight of a small blue and white box tucked in the back of one of the cupboards and snatches it out.

  
“What's that?” Derek asks suspiciously, and Stiles spins around with a manic grin.

 

“Jiffy cornbread! My dad makes it whenever we go over to the McCalls' for dinner; I didn't know we had any left.” He pulls out a mixing bowl. “It'll go great with the chili, and even you can handle this—there's literally nothing to it but mixing and pouring.”

 

Derek hesitates, still and uncertain again, and Stiles somehow feels as though he's standing on the edge of a precipice he hadn't even known was there until this very moment. His heart is hammering again and he doesn't know why, can't figure out why this moment seems so suddenly _important_. But before he can try, there's the sound of running feet and Scott rushes into the room, snatching bowl and mix out of Stiles's hands like they hold the secret to salvation.

 

“I can do it! I'll do it, it's cool, don't worry, Derek,” he beams. “I've got it.”

 

He snags a spoon and pulls the eggs and milk from the fridge, heading over to the girls as Stiles laughs, doubled up and leaning against the counter for support. Derek looks disgruntled, and Stiles risks a quick pat on his shoulder.

 

“Buck up, Hale,” he wheezes. “Maybe garbage duty will teach you to move quicker next time.”

 

“Maybe.” Derek huffs out a sigh, but he's very nearly smiling as he watches Stiles struggle for breath. “Next time.”

 

 

 


	2. Chapter 2

 

 

“You know, my dad's gonna start thinking you're a freak if he finds out you keep crawling in through my window in the middle of the night.”

 

Derek raises an eyebrow as he slips the rest of the way inside. “He already knows I'm a werewolf; how much more of a freak could he possibly think I am?”

 

“Funny. I'm just saying, you can use the front door.”

 

“I could,” Derek agrees. “But then you’d run the risk of your dad eating these instead of you.”

 

Stiles snatches up the grease-stained white paper bag that Derek tosses on the desk, already groaning in anticipation as the scent hits his nose.

 

“You are a god.” He tears open the bag and shoves his hand in. “I m’n it,” he manages around a mouthful of curly fries. “Y’re th’ best p’rson I know.”

 

“Good to know that a little bit of fast food is all it takes to win your heart,” Derek says dryly, and Stiles pretends that his pulse doesn’t stutter at the words even as he swallows and grins.

 

“I’m pretty easy,” he agrees. “So, I know you didn’t climb in my window at half past midnight just to bring me food. I mean, it’d be awesome if you had, but c’mon. What’s up?”

 

Derek settles on the edge of Stiles’s bed, which is simultaneously a relief in the there’s-probably-no-immediate-threat-of-mortal-danger kind of way, and _incredibly fucking rude_ in the just-kickstarted-about-half-a-dozen-of-Stiles’s-long-running-fantasies kind of way. Stiles focuses as hard as he can on the first as he shoves another handful of fries into his mouth. The fact that Derek looks vaguely uneasy is a welcome distraction, since _slight_ -threat-of-mortal-peril still beats him sniffing out Stiles’s boner any day.

 

“There’s something going on downtown, in that abandoned building just off of Sixth.”

 

“Okay.” Stiles turns back to his desk, closing his book and opening his laptop. “I’m guessing it’s not the sort of something you fix by tearing its throat out, if I’m the one you’re telling about it. Wanna give me some search terms here?”

 

“I’m not sure,” Derek says restively. Stiles can hear him shifting on the bed, and _yeah, no, focus_. “The place just smells . . . wrong. Empty.”

 

“Uh.” Stiles shoots a glance over his shoulder at that. “You do know what _abandoned_ means, don’t you?”

 

“I don’t just mean no people, Stiles; I mean _empty_ ,” Derek says with a glare. “The place should be crawling with vermin, but there’s nothing. Not so much as a single rat.”

 

“Well. All right. That’s probably not a good sign.” If there’s something Stiles has learned over the past six years or so, it’s that once animals start fleeing the scene some serious shit’s about to go down. He turns back to the computer and starts opening tabs, hitting up the sites he has bookmarked under the file _Freaky Animal Shit (Paranormal)_. “You might want to grab a book if you’re planning on waiting,” he says absently. “This might take a while.”

 

“What were you reading?” Derek’s voice at his elbow makes Stiles jump, his chair rolling just far enough back with the movement for Derek to easily reach around him and pick up the book he’d been flipping through.

 

“Jesus, man.” Stiles lifts a hand, drops it again when he realizes he has no idea what he was planning to do with it. “Make a _noise_ when you walk, would you?”

 

“ _Small Business for Dummies_?” Derek glances up from the cover, one eyebrow quirked in disbelief. “Didn’t you just graduate from business _school_?”

 

“Yeah, well.” Stiles reaches up, snatching the book back. “A true scholar never stops learning, all right? How about you pick something else to read. Ideally, something you won’t be compelled to mock me for having in the first place.”

 

“Do you actually own any books that fit that description?”

 

“I might! Go take a look at the shelves and leave me alone; I’ve got work to do.”

 

Derek stares down at him for a long moment, long enough that Stiles starts to get a little bit nervous over what he might be seeing. Finally, though, Derek just grunts and turns away.

 

“Your fries are gonna get cold.”

 

“Okay.” Stiles rolls his eyes, but reaches for another handful anyway, because Derek’s not wrong. “Can you give me anything more about the building? Anything else you saw, or smelled? Any sort of a vibe?”

 

“Vibe? Really?”

 

“You want my help or not, asshole?”

 

The sigh that Derek huffs out is deep enough that Stiles can actually see his shoulders move, and he fights back a grin.

 

“For a second I thought . . .” Derek turns back with a thoughtful frown and a paperback held against his hip; Stiles huffs out an irritated sigh when he realizes that he can’t read the title. “Perfume,” Derek says eventually. “And something sharp, like alcohol.”

 

“Huh. Sort of a weird combination, all things considered, but that ought to at least help narrow it down.” Stiles cracks his knuckles as obnoxiously as he can manage, grinning when Derek winces. “All right, go about your business. Leave this to the professional.”

 

It’s an hour and a half after he’s polished off the last of the curly fries when Stiles rolls his shoulders and swivels away from the desk, blinking his eyes against the strain of staring at the screen for about a hundred straight minutes. Derek is reclined on the bed, nose buried in the book—almost literally, Stiles notes, and wonders if the guy needs reading glasses. It’s a ridiculous thought, given the miracle that is werewolf sight, and Stiles tucks it firmly away before the mental image can get him into trouble.

 

“So.” He clears his throat and Derek looks up, tossing the book aside. “The bad news is that when it comes to supernatural beasties that can make the animal kingdom flee in terror, we’re talking about a list as long as my arm.”

 

Derek grunts. “What’s the good news?”

 

“Who said there _was_ good news?” Stiles quips, and Derek lets out a short growl that’s somehow oddly comforting. “Okay, see, it sort of depends on your definition of _good_.”

 

“Did you figure it out or not?”

 

“I, ah. I think so.” Stiles reaches over to switch tabs. “I started looking into the building itself, and it turns out it has quite the salacious history. Or, not the building itself, but the land it’s on. Turns out, at the turn of the century there was a saloon and bordello right in that very spot.” He waggles his eyebrows at Derek. “Which would fit in with your olfactory impression.”

 

Derek’s brow creases into a frown as he swings his legs off the bed, leaning forward to rest his elbows on his knees. “You think it’s a ghost?”

 

“Ghost is pretty much our best-case scenario.” Stiles rubs his palms against his jeans. “Animals aren’t usually spooked by your normal, everyday, won’t-you-please-rest-in-peace-type spirit. And given the place’s history . . .” He clears his throat again. “I think _succubus_ might actually what we’re talking about here.”

 

Derek bites out a low, quiet curse, and surges to his feet. “Print out whatever you’ve got there and grab your jacket.”

 

“What? Why?” Stiles asks even as he scrambles to obey, because Derek’s got that tone in his voice that means _danger_ and _mayhem_ and _probable bodily harm_ , and though he’s loathe to admit it Stiles might just have become an adrenaline junkie somewhere along the line. “Why do I need a jacket?”

 

“Because it’s cold outside.”

 

“Ha-hah, your hilarity knows no bounds. Where are we going? And more importantly, should I text Scott?”

 

Derek pauses for a moment. “No. This is strictly recon. More people will only make us more conspicuous.”

 

“Wait, what do you mean _recon_?” Stiles stops in the middle of the room, papers clutched in one hand and his jacket dangling from the other. “Are you talking about a stakeout? We’re going on a stakeout?” He stares at Derek, vaguely aware that he’s gaping like a fish. “Are you _crazy_?”

 

“Stiles—”

 

“What if there’s an _actual succubus_ there?” Stiles yelps. “You don’t think heading in blind is just a little bit incredibly stupid?”

 

“If there’s anything it can do, I don’t think it’ll affect me. I was at the building for nearly half an hour earlier, and I never felt anything.”

 

“What about me?”

 

Derek just shrugs, the hint of a smirk turning up his lips. “Well if you start acting like you’re in heat, that’ll be a pretty good sign we’re on the right track, won’t it?”

 

“Oh my god, forget what I said earlier,” Stiles groans, “you are the actual worst.”

 

“I won’t let anything happen to you,” Derek says quietly, and Stiles swallows heavily before he turns to dig beneath his bed.

 

“Then I’d better make sure I can say the same.” His questing fingers close around the strap of the bag he has stashed there; he makes a triumphant noise as he pulls it out with a flourish. “There should be something in here I can use to put together some sort of protective amulet, or potpourri or something.” Stiles shrugs on his jacket, slings the bag over his shoulder, and reaches beneath the bed again. “Wait and see, I’ll totally have us covered.”

 

Derek is staring blankly at him by the time he straightens again, eyebrows twitching at the baseball bat that Stiles emerges with.

 

“Graduation gift from Scott,” Stiles says with a crooked grin; Derek’s eyebrows twitch even harder.

 

“Do you even play—”

 

“It’s, uh. Sort of a running joke. Thing. Anyway, he had Deaton make it for me; check it out.” He tosses it across the room in an easy, underhanded arc. Derek reaches out, reflexes as impeccable as usual, and—the bat clatters to the floor amidst the sound of Stiles’s delighted laughter. “Oh man, I totally didn’t know if that was gonna work! _Awesome_!” Stiles steps over to retrieve it, grinning like a loon at Derek’s baffled, furious face. “Mountain ash,” he explains, hefting the bat onto his shoulder. “Just the thing for late-night stakeouts of terrifying paranormal monsters. Pretty sweet, huh?”

 

Derek doesn’t look angry anymore, but he seems just as confused as ever. “Why did Scott give you a mountain ash baseball bat for graduation?”

 

“Um, because it’s awesome?” Stiles shrugs. “I need a way to defend myself, don’t I? I mean, the things Deaton’s taught me are great, but let’s be honest, my charms only work about half the time, and I’m not really loving the idea of running around Beacon Hills with a fifty-fifty shot of being monster chow.”

 

“You’re definitely staying, then?” Derek asks, and if he’s doing that thing where he stands eerily, preternaturally still while he waits for Stiles’s answer, well, it’s been a while now since Stiles stopped letting that get to him.

 

“I swear, you have the memory span of a goldfish,” he says, rolling his eyes. “I’m done with school; I have a job lined up until I can get a business proposal for the cafe together; dude, you were _in the room_ last week when I was showing Boyd those apartment layouts, remember?”

 

“But for good,” Derek presses, taking a half-inch step forward and somehow suddenly looming in Stiles’s vision. “You’re moving back here permanently?”

 

“Is this that whole pack-breakup worry thing again?” Stiles asks on an uneasy laugh, bumping Derek’s shoulder companionably as he steps around him towards the door. “I’m planning on opening a business here, Derek; that’s pretty permanent. The pack’s gonna be fine, so take a deep breath and chill out.”

 

He hears Derek behind him doing just that—a long, slow inhale that has Stiles’s lips twitching again.

 

“Let’s get going,” Derek says, as if _Stiles_ is the one who was just perfecting his living statue act. “We can stop for coffee on the way.”

 

“And more fries,” Stiles puts in, fully expecting to be shot down and unprepared for the genuine smile that crosses Derek’s face.

 

“And more fries.” It sounds like a promise that Stiles can’t decipher, and a moment later he’s lost the opportunity as he scrambles to catch up.

 

 


	3. Chapter 3

 

 

Autumn has come on fast, cold and wet after the long Indian summer following graduation, and Stiles wishes he'd thought to grab something warmer than his sweatshirt. Not that it's a bad sweatshirt, he thinks apologetically, and gives it a surreptitious little pat. He's had it since high school, and maybe it's a little worn in places, threadbare around the sleeves, but it's still his favorite; enough that it's lasted through six years, two states, and more Little Red Riding Hood jokes than he cares to remember. He loves the stupid thing; he just wishes he'd grabbed something warmer, is all, before he went traipsing around the woods in the middle of the night again.

 

He wishes he'd done a lot of things beforehand.

 

“Stiles.” The growl, when it comes, isn't unexpected, but it still sends a shiver rippling its way down Stiles's spine. “Do you even comprehend the _idea_ of stealth?”

 

“Well excuse me,” he snaps before his brain catches up with his mouth, “for not having extra super special werewolf senses. In case you hadn't noticed, it's a little bit dark out here; I can't exactly see where I'm going.” As if to prove his point, a root or a branch or _something_ catches his foot and he stumbles, cursing. “Plus, as per usual, you haven't even bothered to mention what we're doing out here.”

 

“Surveillance,” is Derek's terse response, and Stiles nods a little spastically.

 

“Right, of course,” he mutters. “Surveillance again, that makes sense. In the dead of night, when the human can't see _shit_. Really, that's—that's an excellent plan.”

 

Derek glances over; Stiles can see his eyes flash in the dim moonlight.

 

“You notice things. Maybe not always the things you should,” he mutters, “but still. Darcy's pack will be camped out somewhere, which means a fire to keep warm, which means light. Enough for even you to see by. They don't know you're pack yet, as far as we know, and humans in these woods aren't anything new; you should be able to get close enough to get a good look without them going after you.”

 

“Should? _Should_?” Stiles spends several moments cursing softly under his breath, knowing that Derek will hear him anyway. “Jesus fucking Christ, I'm going to die tonight.”

 

Derek snorts. “You always say that. Don’t be melodramatic.”

 

“Melodramatic!” Stiles bursts out, his voice high and thready. “Oh, that's rich, coming from you.”

 

Derek glares over at him again; Stiles can _feel_ it, even if he can't see it. “I'm not melodramatic.”

 

Stiles actually has to stop in his tracks for a moment, he's laughing so hard. “Oh god,” he manages to gasp eventually. “No, you're right, absolutely. Mr. Derek “Untheatrical” Hale, that's you.”

 

There's an annoyed huffing sound, and Stiles has to scramble to catch up as Derek starts walking again without a backwards glance. And Stiles isn't sorry, he's really not, but that doesn't mean he isn't kicking himself just a little bit for letting things get to this point again. It was the same back in his room, when Derek had shown up and unceremoniously ordered him out to the car. Pack business to take care of, Stiles, get your ass in gear. And Stiles had meant to say something, he really had. He'd mapped out the conversation in his head, all the different twists and turns it might end up taking, and he'd been _ready._ He'd thought he'd been ready. Now he's definitely wishing he hadn't chickened out, because if he goes through with it at this point it's going to be about a billion times easier for Derek to hide his body.

 

But the thing is . . . well, the thing is, that despite Derek's reassurance and the weapons he’s packing, Stiles knows he's right. There's a better than average chance that he could die tonight—which, considering what _average_ entails in his life, is saying something. And if he does die tonight, and this is his absolute last chance, he doesn't want to spend his last moments before the mind-numbing terror sets in regretting the things he never had the nerve to do. After all, he's spent the past six years dealing with way scarier stuff than this. Werewolves, and Argents, and assorted creatures of the night. Lydia. This should be a piece of cake.

 

“So, Erica and I were hanging out earlier.” 

 

All of the scripts he'd rehearsed earlier have flown straight out of his head, and this is what he's left with. Babbling. As per usual. Derek just grunts in response.

 

“I know,” he says after a moment. “Her scent was all over your apartment.”

 

“Yeah, well.” Stiles trips again, curses, and tries to straighten out his clothes like nothing's happened. “I guess Scott mentioned I'd gotten the new _Black Widow_ game, and she wanted to check it out.”

 

“Not that this isn't a fascinating topic of conversation,” Derek deadpans, “but remember that conversation we had about stealth?”

 

“Please, we're not anywhere near them. If they've got a fire going we'll see them way before they could hear us. Or, well. You will, anyway. And besides, you should know that Erica is a totally poor loser. That's probably something you should work on with her.”

 

“You're telling me you're just _now_ figuring that out about her?”

 

“Heh. No, I guess not.” Stiles wraps his arms around himself as the wind picks up, only to drop them almost immediately in the interest of at least _trying_ to keep his balance. “She used to have a thing for me, you know,” he hears himself saying, and oh, never mind, a faceplant into the forest floor is suddenly sounding pretty damn appealing.

 

“I know,” Derek says again. He sounds even terser than usual, something Stiles genuinely hadn't thought that was even possible.

 

“Oh.” 

 

For several long minutes, then, they continue to walk in silence as Stiles frantically searches his memory. He and Derek have talked about a lot of things in the three months since Stiles officially moved back home: about the pack, about Seattle, about his unofficial internship with Dr. Deaton. They've talked about non-pack-related subjects, too: Derek's told him about growing up in the Hale house surrounded by family, and listened surprisingly attentively when Stiles talked about his mom. There have been idle chats about music and books and movies in between strategy meetings and a dozen nights like this one, traipsing through the woods or hunkered down in Derek's car on another ill-advised stake-out. Stiles feels like he would probably remember talking about something as embarrassingly personal as Erica's unrequited teenage crush on him; but then, he does have a tendency to lose track of what he’s saying, especially when he's nervous. It probably slipped out at some point without his even noticing it. Unless, actually—

 

“Wait, did you know back then?” Stiles demands, and Derek shoots him another look that practically crackles with annoyance.

 

“I didn't even _know_ her before I turned her.”

 

“Yeah, but after. I mean, you didn't know right away, right? You just found out about it recently?”

 

A growl rumbles out of Derek's chest, far more threatening in the dark of the woods than Stiles is used to. “She wouldn't shut up about you, so yeah, it wasn't exactly hard to put together. Everyone knew.”

 

“ _What_?”

 

“ _Stiles_.”

 

“Sorry, I know,” he grumbles. “Stealth. Element of surprise, blah blah blah. But why didn't anyone ever say anything to _me_? I mean, why didn't _she_ say anything?” He's surprised to find that he's actually still a little upset about it. “She was cute even when she was sort of weird and socially awkward, and she likes comic books, and she's kind of mean which hello, is _totally_ my type. I don’t get why she never even tried to talk to me.”

 

“I really couldn’t say.”

 

“Maybe she didn't know?” Stiles continues as if Derek hasn’t spoken. “That I might've been into her. Maybe she thought I'd turn her down, I guess? That would probably make a person, y'know . . . afraid to speak up. If they liked someone.”

 

There's an irritated huff from Derek, and he turns abruptly to face Stiles. “Is there a _point_ to—”

 

It's ridiculous and cliched, but Stiles knows that if he doesn't step up now he's going to chicken out completely, which would be a waste of at least two hours of perfectly good panic and overthinking. Sure there are probably more original ways he could've kissed Derek Hale for the first time, ways that aren't like something out of a bad romantic comedy. But Stiles is finding it hard to care about that with Derek's stubble scraping against his palms, and Derek's lips warm against his. He edges closer, pressing further into Derek's personal space; he hears himself make some sort of sound, something small and eager, and it's that sound that shocks him into the realization that Derek hasn't moved a single muscle.

 

“God!” Stiles leaps back, clasping a hand over his mouth as he stares wide-eyed at what might as well be a moonlit statue before him. “Sorry! Oh god, I shouldn't have done that, I'm so sorry. I don't even know why I—I mean, it seemed like a good idea at the time, but that was before you—god, you're going to kill me, aren't you?” He can hear that low, threatening rumble building in Derek's chest, and Stiles's knees are actually going weak. But he's _Stiles_ , and apparently not even impending death can get him to shut up. “Look, just make it quick, okay? And, uh, tell my dad that I died battling the forces of evil or something? You know, instead of 'your son got his throat ripped out for trying to mack on an alpha werewolf'. Because that's just, like, undignified, and embarrassing, and—”

 

A deep growl splits the air, and Derek _lunges_ for him. Stiles lets out a terrified, helpless squeak and stumbles back, trying on pure instinct to reach for the baseball bat slung across his back. He manages to wrest it free, but Derek is too quick; his hands are clamped around Stiles's arms, holding them at his sides as he shoves him backwards. Stiles's back collides with the wide, unyielding curve of a tree trunk, hard enough to drive the breath from his lungs. Derek is leaning forward, his hands sliding around Stiles's back to hold him tight, and when his mouth crashes down on Stiles's it's more of a surprise than it probably should be.

 

“Idiot,” Derek is muttering against his lips as the bat slides through Stiles's suddenly limp fingers and hits the ground with a muffled _thump_. “You're such a fucking idiot.”

 

“Mmm-hmm.” Stiles wriggles his arms free to wrap around Derek's waist. “Yeah.” Honestly, Derek can call him whatever he wants, just as long as he keeps kissing him. Derek kisses like Stiles has always imagined he would: rough and aggressive, like he's trying to take Stiles over. And Stiles is only too happy to let him, too busy trying to get closer to care, nipping at the swell of Derek's lower lip and thrilling at the groan he gets in response.

 

One of Derek's hands slides around the back of Stiles's head, shifting the angle of the kiss so that he can sink deeper into Stiles's mouth. His tongue slicks over Stiles's as if to draw out the moan that follows, and he moves one knee forward, pressing it between Stiles's thighs. Stiles starts to rock against it instinctively, desperately chasing pressure and friction while Derek makes broken, hungry little sounds into the kiss, like Stiles is the best thing he's ever tasted. 

 

There's a voice trying to make itself heard in Stiles's head, all but drowned out by the tidal wave of _want_ that's sweeping through him. It's whispering a warning that he can't quite understand, a hint of danger he's forgotten. It doesn't seem as important as the shape of Derek's teeth against his tongue or the press of a warm, solid chest against his own. But suddenly Derek stiffens and pulls away, and Stiles barely has a moment to flail helplessly at the sudden loss before he hears it: the rush of feet all around them, a chorus of growls, a single sharp bark of laughter.

 

The first strike hits Derek hard and sends him flying; he crashes into a tree nearly thirty feet away and Stiles cries out at the terrifying crunch of bone. Derek is struggling to rise when Stiles drops to the ground, scrambling for the bat at his feet. He comes up swinging, shouting like a berserker as he lands a vicious underhanded swing between the legs of a wolf who hasn't realized yet that he's a threat. Stiles can hear Derek beginning to fight as well; he can make out the sound of his growls and snarls over the cacophony of five other wolves, and he makes a mental note to worry about what that means when he's not in the middle of fighting for his life.

 

Most of the pack is young, inexperienced, and riding a surge of bloodlust that makes them incredibly strong, but not very bright. Stiles, meanwhile, has spent over a fourth of his life as a fragile human neck-deep in the supernatural; he hasn't survived this long without learning how to fight. He swings again, and again, at any wolf within reach, aiming for the temple, the wrist, the knees—anywhere fragile that will crack under a single swing. The momentum from one swing carries him into the next, giving him more power and keeping him moving. Stiles doesn't dare break his concentration to look, but he's aware of Derek in the periphery of his vision, claws and fangs flashing as he rips into flesh that refuses to heal itself after.

 

Stiles’s eyes have adjusted in the dark, but not well enough for him to see the blow aimed at his head soon enough to avoid it completely. Stiles feels a claw rake across his forehead just below the hairline and he staggers back, blinking hard against the sudden rush of blood that's flooding into his eyes. He hears a sudden roar, and when he manages to clear his vision it's to see that Derek has one of the wolves in a one-handed grip, suspended in the air by her throat as he roars his challenge at her again. 

 

Even with just one clear eye Stiles can see the red fade from her eyes, see her features shrink back to human. The rest of the pack is frozen, waiting; Derek snarls once more and tosses her to the ground. She scrambles to her feet, head down as she backs away, and the rest of her pack follows. Derek stands there until they're out of sight and for another moment, two, three. Then he's at Stiles's side in a flash, tilting his head back and pulling away the hand that Stiles has pressed to the gash in his forehead.

 

“I'm fine.” Stiles is squinting out of his right eye, sure, but his left one is fine, and all things considered this could've ended a hell of a lot worse. “Really, it's just a little cut.”

 

“It's still bleeding.”

 

“Well, it's a head wound.” With Derek's hand still gripping his chin, there's not much that Stiles can do but roll his eyes. “It'll stop if I keep pressure on it, so if you could give me my hand back—”

 

“You're not—here.” Derek lets him go, and steps back, pulling something out of his back pocket and holding it out. “You're not hurt anywhere else?”

 

“No. Dude, you carry a handkerchief? Seriously?” Stiles starts to smile despite the throbbing burn that's started up in his head now that the adrenaline is wearing off, and Derek's shoulders hunch.

 

“Do you want it or not?” he demands.

 

“I do. Thanks.” It's gotta be more hygienic than his bare hand, anyway; Stiles takes the little square of fabric and presses it to his temple. “So. Uh.”

 

“You need to get that cleaned up,” Derek says abruptly. “And we need to talk. Let's go.”

 

 


	4. Chapter 4

 

 

Stiles really isn't in a mood to argue, which is good, because Derek doesn't give him the opportunity. His hand is already clamped around Stiles's shoulder, urging him back the way they came. When Stiles struggles it's out of deep-rooted stubbornness more than anything; without Derek leading the way, Stiles would more than likely wander in the completely wrong direction, or else stumble over something in the dark and break his neck. He doesn't exactly object to having Derek's hands on him, either—or to Derek getting bossy with him, come to that. But it's the principle of the thing. He has his manly dignity, and okay, he doesn't have a _lot_ of it, but that makes it even more vital that he cling tooth-and-nail to what he _does_ have.

 

“I'm perfectly capable of walking under my own power, you know,” he gripes, and if he trips before the words are fully out of his mouth, well, that's Derek's fault, not his. “There's really no need to—”

 

“Stiles.” Derek's hand moves to the back of his neck instead, squeezing warningly once as he leans down to speak next to Stiles's ear. “Would you rather I picked you up and _carried_ you back to the car?”

 

“Um.” Stiles swallows hard, trying to ignore that particular mental image. “No?”

 

“Then shut up, and keep walking.”

 

“Right.”

 

They make it back to the Camaro quickly, and Derek opens Stiles's door first, which Stiles would object to if his legs didn't feel alarmingly weak. He collapses into the passenger seat, taking a moment to lean his head back before he hauls the door closed. By the time he's finished struggling with his seatbelt Derek has the engine started, already peeling off down the road towards the Hale house like the hounds of hell are chasing them. Which is ridiculous, because Stiles is pretty sure they sent the hounds of hell whimpering and running for cover about ten minutes ago. He nearly opens his mouth to say so, but for some reason the words stick in his throat. Apparently the combination of nerves, hormones, and abject terror has done what little else in Stiles's life has ever managed, and shut him the hell up.

 

Stiles sheds his hoodie as soon as they’re inside, wincing a little as it scatters dirt and leaves all over the clean kitchen floor. It’s filthy from his fall to the forest floor, spattered with blood that he’s pretty sure isn’t all his. He dumps it on the table with a sigh; this is hardly the worst that particular piece of clothing has been through. He’ll throw it in the washer when he gets home, and it’ll have a few new scars but it’ll come out fine in the end.

 

He knows how it feels.

 

Derek’s already digging beneath the sink for the first aid kit he’s kept stocked there since the time Lydia had gotten a five-inch gash in her leg from an injured unicorn and refused to be taken to the hospital. Stiles squeezes in beside him to rinse out the bloody handkerchief still clasped to his forehead, using the damp cloth to clean the scratch there as well as he can. He lathers up a little bit of soap and dabs carefully, only hissing a little bit at the sting. He’d checked in the car mirror, and while it looks like it’s probably going to scar, at least it’s nothing that needs stitches. Small blessings. 

 

“So.” Chancing a glance sideways to find Derek staring at the cut he’s cleaning, Stiles lets his mouth curve up in an uncertain smile. “Is really terrible timing just like a general werewolf trait, or . . .”

 

“What?” 

 

Derek’s still staring. Stiles sighs and leans down to rinse clean; when he pulls up again there’s a paper towel waiting for him. He takes it with an absent _thanks_ and starts to pat his face dry.

 

“I’m just saying.” He swallows hard, past the nerves and anxiety of actually taking this step, of _talking_ about this instead of blustering past it until they can pretend it never happened, as half his brain is still screaming at him to do. He looks up, trying to meet Derek’s eyes, but they’re still locked on Stiles’s forehead like a half-inch cut holds the secrets of the universe, and Stiles huffs out a sigh. “Things were just starting to get good, you know?” He laughs a little. “Figures Darcy’s pack would wait ’til the worst possible time to jump us. Assholes.”

 

“It was the scent,” Derek says absently, still not meeting Stiles’s gaze. “Hormones, pheromones; people just smell _better_ when they’re in full swing. The scent probably drew them in, and once they realized who we were they decided to press the advantage.”

 

“Oh.” Stiles stares down at the handkerchief in his hand, soft white streaked with the pink-brown stain of blood. He clears his throat. “So, is that why you . . . kissed me back? To press an advantage of your own?” He’s nodding to himself, enjoying the familiar relief of understanding even as something in his chest _twists_. “I mean, that makes sense. You had to know they were close, and if you had the chance to lure them into making some sort of stupid move, then—”

 

The warm, wide palm cupping his jaw has him stuttering to a stop before Derek’s mouth even touches his, but once it does Stiles nearly forgets that he was talking at all. This kiss isn’t as hard as the last one, not as rough or as feral, but still intense for all of that, deep and thorough and this time the _idiot_ is implied with every scrape of Derek’s teeth, every sweep of his tongue. Stiles is clinging before he has the time to be embarrassed, clutching at Derek’s shoulders, at the back of his neck, running fingers through his hair to scrape short, blunt nails across his scalp. It’s a kiss that he could drown in—warm lips and a clever tongue and the rough scrape of stubble catching against his own. Stiles is being drawn in, overwhelmed, taken over and it’s everything, everything he’s spent the past four and a half years trying to convince himself he doesn’t want.

 

Derek’s hands migrate into Stiles’s back pockets, tugging him forward until they’re pressed together from chest to thigh. Stiles is working his hips in tight, needy little circles and distantly wondering about the stability of the kitchen counter when Derek groans and pulls abruptly back.

 

“Wait.” His pupils are blown, his lips swollen and red; it’s not playing fair, and Stiles is already leaning forward, trying to get that mouth back on his. “ _Wait_.” Derek’s voice is unsteady, but his face firms as his hands close tight around Stiles’s shoulders, holding him at a distance. “We really do need to talk.”

 

“Do we _have_ to?” Stiles can hear the whine in his own voice, and he’ll probably be embarrassed about that later. In an hour or so, maybe, when he can focus on something beyond the heat of Derek’s kiss, the sensation of feeling him every bit as hard and ready as Stiles is where their hips are locked together. “We can talk anytime, we can talk later, let’s go back to the kissing instead.”

 

“Stiles,” Derek huffs, kiss-swollen lips hinting at a smile, and fuck, how is _that_ fair?

 

“Fine.” He holds his hands up in surrender. “Okay, fine. I want you to know, though, that I’m gonna bring this up every time you tell me that I talk too much from here on out.”

 

“Fair enough.” Derek releases him slowly, as though he suspects that Stiles is going to lunge at him the moment he has the opportunity. When Stiles stays still Derek nods once, satisfied. “Here.”

 

Stiles stands still when Derek reaches around him, relaxing back against the counter when he comes back with a cotton ball and the miniature bottle of hydrogen peroxide. Derek is the one who wants to talk, and Stiles is determined to keep his silence until he does, contenting himself with studying the look of concentration on his face as he dabs at Stiles’s forehead.

 

“I swear to god, if you’re just going to patch me up and tell me to go home, I will brain you with my bat.”

 

Derek looks startled at Stiles’s outburst, but his lips are curving up when he reaches for the antibacterial ointment.

 

“I can honestly say that that’s absolutely nowhere close to what I plan to do with you.”

 

“Okay.” There’s a dark promise in Derek’s words that’s sending shivers up Stiles’s spine; he shifts his weight forward and Derek’s nose flares, but he doesn’t back away. “In that case—”

 

“ _Stiles_.” Derek’s slipping into what Stiles thinks of as his alpha voice now, and while that certainly isn’t doing anything to curb Stiles’s urge to jump him, he also knows that Derek only sounds that way when he’s really, truly serious. “Focus,” Derek says, and Stiles sighs.

 

“Look, I get that you’re maybe a little rusty on this whole thing, but I’m getting some kind of mixed signals here, so if you could just let me in on the master plan instead of being all _werewolf of mystery_ about it, that would really be appreciated.”

 

“The plan,” Derek says smoothly as he affixes a bandage over the cut and steps carefully back, “is to have you in my bed tonight, and to keep you there for as long as we can manage to go without food or water. I just need to know how much further I have to go with the rest of it. I . . . I just need to know that first.”

 

There’s a pause for several long moments while Stiles attempts to focus his thoughts past the images that Derek’s words have conjured up, past the idea of being wrapped around Derek like a second skin, and maybe that’s moving a little bit faster than he’d planned but Stiles absolutely does not fucking care. When he finally manages to resurface Derek’s jaw is tense; he’s frozen in the way that makes him look as if he’s anticipating a blow, and Stiles frowns.

 

“What exactly do you mean, ‘the rest of it’? The rest of _what_?”

 

Derek’s edging towards a glare now, and Stiles can’t help but think it’s pretty rich that Derek is the one frustrated with _him_ right now.

 

“I just want to know how close I am to convincing you to stay.”

 

“Oh for—how many times do I have to tell you that I’m staying in Beacon Hills before you believe me?” Stiles demands, glaring right back. “I don’t want to be anywhere else, Derek, I just—”

 

His eyes widen a little when Derek snarls and steps forward, but the jolt of fear Stiles is half-expecting to feel is conspicuous in its absence. There’s something in Derek’s face that Stiles recognizes from a handful of times before—years ago, when Stiles dropped the word _abomination_ ; when they talked about why Derek wouldn’t ban Peter from the pack; when they talked about the fire, about Kate, and Stiles admitted that he already knew. It’s a look that overrules the anger Derek uses as a mask, as a crutch, and unfathomable as it might seem, Stiles has never felt as safe as he does right now.

 

“Not just _here_ , Stiles.” Derek’s jaw is working as if he’s fighting between the need to speak his mind and the fear of going on. “Not just with the pack,” he finally manages. “With _me_.”

 

“Oh my . . .” Stiles can’t help but stare, caught by the vulnerability he can see in Derek’s eyes—the vulnerability, he’s realizing abruptly, that Derek is _letting_ him see, and holy shit, it’s never fully hit him until now, but Derek Hale _trusts_ him. “You are a total moron,” he breathes out, and he doesn’t even have it in him to wince at the way the words come out.

 

“Is—”

 

“No, no, you are an actual, _legitimate_ moron.” A smile is spreading over Stiles’s face even as Derek’s expression is wavering between hurt and confusion, and Stiles rocks back and forth a little in delight. “And I think I am, too. _This_ is what you’ve been acting so weird about! You’ve been . . . been . . . oh my god, Derek, have you been, like, _wooing_ me?”

 

“I . . .” Derek looks shifty, but there’s something like reluctant amusement sparking in his eyes. “Maybe.”

 

“Oh my god,” Stiles grins. “That’s _awesome_. But you know it’s also, like, totally redundant, right?” He moves forward half a step, bringing them close enough that he can feel the heat from Derek’s body. “I mean, all you would’ve had to do was crook your finger and I’d have been all over you. I mean it, _all_ up in your business.”

 

Derek sets his jaw again at that. “It’s not just about sex. Don’t get me wrong,” he adds sardonically, “if that’s all you’re offering right now, I’ll take it. And you. Repeatedly, until one or both of us pass out.” He breathes in deeply, his eyes growing heavy-lidded as he breathes in Stiles’s scent. “I can’t believe how much I want you sometimes, Stiles. But I want _all_ of you.”

 

“God. Really.” Stiles rolls his eyes and leans in to press a quick, reassuring kiss against Derek’s lips, then another because it just feels too damn good not to. “You absolutely never get to call me an idiot, ever again. You’re a part of why I wanted to come back home, Derek; why I want to _stay_ here. A pretty big part, actually. And if sex was all that was on the table, yeah. I’d take that too, because I’ve been lusting after you basically since we first met. But if you’re offering more?” He leans back enough to meet Derek’s eyes. “I’m actually _not_ an idiot. I want it. I want everything.”

 

Stiles can’t quite read the look in Derek’s eyes, but that’s okay; he doesn’t need to. What he needs is to reach down, to tangle his fingers with Derek’s.

 

“I know you can hear it,” he says, lifting their hands to settle against his neck, Derek’s fingers resting lightly against his pulse. “But I want you to feel it, too, when I say I want to stay. With you.”

 

It’s maybe _possible_ that Stiles has actually . . . fallen in love with him. A little. Completely, really, and long ago. He can’t quite bring himself to say it out loud; he’s still a little bit embarrassed about it, to be honest, how long he’s been carrying a torch for this gorgeous, uncommunicative, infuriating idiot in front of him. He doesn’t say it, but it doesn’t really matter. What matters is now, and _now_ is Derek slipping his hand around to the back of Stiles’s neck and tugging him in close, kissing him again _finally_ and hauling him in so that Stiles can wrap his legs around his waist.

 

Yeah. Now is good.

 

 


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This scene takes place after the events of _Cry Havoc_ and makes reference to some of the situations dealt with in that story. If you find yourself confused, you may want to read that first.

 

 

It’s never been about words with them.

 

There’s an almost comical irony in that, Stiles thinks, because no one he told would believe that it isn’t just Derek, that Stiles finds himself every bit as verbally constipated, every bit as often. It’s easy to talk just for the sake of talking, and Stiles still does that from time to time. It’s something else when what you say has weight and importance, and Stiles will be the first to say that when it’s important, when it _matters_ , it’s better to stay silent than to say the wrong thing.

 

He’s never found the right words for this. For them.

 

But that’s never really been how they communicate.

 

Derek speaks in another language, in action and deed and the spaces between his words when he can be bothered to use them at all; in his eyes and the set of his mouth, in all the things he doesn’t say. And Stiles, who used words for so long as a weapon, as a shield, has grown fluent in silences, in reading the truths Derek says without speaking and offering his own up in return. Two years apart has left him uncertain of his own skill, but he’s picking it up again quickly. _Immersion learning_ , he thinks, and hides a smile against Derek’s shoulder.

 

The words still won’t come, for either of them, not even now. Not even when they _should_. Instead they speak in the slide of skin against skin, wrapped around each other in the darkness, in air grown thick with the scent of them together. The soft press of lips that lingers against the hinge of Stiles’s jaw; the dip of a tongue into the hollow of Derek’s throat, thrown back and bared in a way that means more than a thousand words could ever manage.

 

They’re calmer now, but no less desperate, no less focused on the need to stay connected at as many points as possible. Derek’s hands squeeze lightly around Stiles’s waist, holding him close as he trails his mouth slowly down his neck, savoring the taste of him. Stiles tilts his head back in invitation, shifting until their feet are tangled together, insteps sliding against each other. The movement of Derek’s body against his is electric—the gentle scrape of hair against his chest and thighs, the unexpected softness of his skin. It sends a current through him, illuminating things that he’d thought were long forgotten.

 

 _I missed you_ , they say, and _yes, more,_ and _yours_. _Don’t leave me_ and _never again_.

 

When Derek pushes inside of him it’s a promise and a demand, spoken in the weight of his body and slow, deep thrusts. The air in Stiles’s lungs feels like molasses, thick and heavy and not enough, not nearly enough. When Derek leans down to kiss him Stiles clings, gripping at his shoulders, his arms, the broad span of his back and down to his waist, trying to anchor himself as his head goes light and blissfully empty.

 

It’s dark, and he can’t see more than vague outlines and the curve of Derek’s shoulder where the streetlight outside has cast his skin with a ghostly golden glow. He knows that Derek is watching him, though, more focused on Stiles’s face than he is on the movement of their bodies. Stiles can’t quite remember what that means, but it makes him tilt his head back on a quiet moan. When Derek leans down to close his teeth around his throat, firm and deliberate and just hard enough to hurt, Stiles comes in a long, shuddering burst, even though he’d have sworn that he was nowhere close.

 

It goes on and on and on like that, the two of them together in that bed; how long, Stiles has no real clue. It’s still dark after they both wake from a doze, and when Derek pads to the bathroom Stiles lies back, arms crossed behind his head as he studies the room around him.

 

It’s strange, in the best possible way, to be back in this room, his sheets rumpled and stained in a way he’d never managed when he lived here. A dozen teenage fantasies all come true at once: Derek Hale in his childhood bed, inside of _him_ , and it’s okay that Stiles has thought about it, okay that he’s maybe let himself fall a little harder than he meant to, because Derek wants to stay. Wants to keep him.

 

Sore and sticky, his body covered in bruises from Derek’s mouth and hands, the memories that wash over him seem somewhat surreal. The first time he touched himself thinking of Derek, laid out in bed just like this, confused and excited and somehow defiant, as if he’d been waiting for the universe to demand an explanation. He remembers conversations about everything and nothing as they sat in this room together, and how he worried that Derek might finally decide he’d had enough of dealing with the smell of Stiles’s awkward teen lust. How he’d have given almost anything to keep that from happening, to keep from losing what had become a surprisingly close friend just because he was unfairly attractive and Stiles hadn’t quite mastered the secret of self-control just yet.

 

He remembers sitting at his desk, working on the reading for his microeconomics class and waiting for Derek to turn up with the latest on the Beacon Hills monster of the week, and realizing that his harmless little crush had taken a turn without his permission or realization. That he was completely, hopelessly, _idiotically_ in love with Derek Hale.

 

When Derek comes back he laughs at the hand Stiles wraps around his wrist, yanking him back into bed, and he keeps laughing until he’s flat on his back with Stiles’s tongue licking a hot wet stripe up the underside of his cock. There’s quiet after that, Derek’s nails scratching lightly over Stiles’s scalp, his breathing growing more and more ragged as Stiles does his very best to reduce him to a moaning, gibbering mess.

 

He does a pretty good job, though it’s nothing compared to the sound that Derek makes when Stiles straddles his stomach and comes all over his chest.

 

Some time later—minutes, hours, he doesn’t know—Stiles is kneeling on the bed with his chest pressed to the mattress, exhausted and wrung-out and still painfully, pathetically hard, panting against the sheets as Derek fucks into him. His thrusts are careful, controlled; maddeningly slow, no matter how Stiles tries to shove back against him. There’s a wide, warm palm curved against his hip, deceptively gentle as Derek holds him in place while his other hand slips up, past the dip at the base of Stiles’s spine, over skin gone damp with sweat, and it’s several moments before Stiles realizes what Derek is doing. His fingers trace the cuts across his back, almost all healed over now. Derek’s fingertips catch against scar tissue, slide along the edges and trace old patterns in Stiles’s skin.

 

He has other scars scattered across his body; some he’s had since childhood, but the biggest, nastiest ones are newer, and Derek has traced them all tonight. There’s a story for each one, and Stiles has shared them even if Derek already knew, even if he was there for the fight against the _manetoa_ , the run-in with a half-mad omega, the succubus that Stiles managed to escape with no more than a badly skinned knee and wounded pride. None of the others felt like this, however, even when Stiles explained the fight with a _leshy_ in Franklin Park or accidentally walking into a rogue werewolf’s den. Derek’s touch now feels darker, less steady, as if the ghosts of their time apart are seeping out beneath his fingers.

 

Stiles reaches back over his shoulder to grab Derek’s hand and hold on tight.

 

The sound that Derek makes is caught somewhere between a snarl and a sob, squeezing Stiles’s fingers so hard that for a moment Stiles worries that they might break. Neither of them let go as Derek’s hips pick up speed, as he fucks Stiles harder and harder until Stiles has to brace his free hand against the headboard. He’s shaking and moaning, and he thinks he’s saying something, but all he can hear is the roar of his blood and the vulgar creak of the mattress and Derek grunting through his orgasm behind him. They collapse together, gasping for breath, and when Derek works a hand between Stiles and the mattress it takes fewer than a dozen strokes before Stiles is coming as well, almost dry and borderline painful and utterly, completely wonderful.

 

Afterwards, he lets Derek manhandle his limp body into a comfortable position, muttering complaints against the pillow and grinning when he can practically _feel_ Derek rolling his eyes. He could have this again, he knows. Not just the sex—though he certainly isn’t inclined to turn that down—but all of it. Everything that he remembers, everything they lost and, against all odds, somehow found again. Lazy Sunday mornings watching Derek do the crossword puzzle while Stiles taunts him with the answers he’s looked up on his phone. Stupid arguments over how to load the dishwasher or whose turn it is to take out the trash. Trips to the grocery store together. Late nights going over paperwork for the cafe until one of them realizes it’s nearly two in the morning and drags them both to bed.

 

Their bed. Falling asleep and waking up with Derek beside him, warm and solid and _his_.

 

The idea is intoxicating, and almost every bit as frightening.

 

Derek trails his hands over Stiles’s back and they still don’t speak, lost in thoughts that neither of them are ready to voice yet. Stiles wants that life, with all of its epic drama and petty annoyances, its dangers and its warmth. Still, it’s dizzying, to go from having nothing to having everything, to being told that he can just walk back into the life he left behind. He can’t help but think that there should be a catch somewhere. There always is.

 

Later, Stiles knows, they’ll find the will to leave this bed, to face the world and everything they still need to work out between them. They’ll go for breakfast, or Derek will cook; he’ll scowl and bitch when Stiles steals his bacon, and Stiles will lecture about the dangers of cholesterol until Derek calls him a hypocrite and throws a sugar packet at him. They _will_ talk eventually. They’ll take the time to find the words for all the things they never said before.

 

For now, he’s exhausted and sated, and he can’t bring himself to worry too much about the future. He has Derek’s arm wrapped possessively around his waist, his shoulder firm and smooth beneath Stiles’s lazy kisses; for now, that’s enough.

 

“There are things I want to tell you.” Derek’s voice startles Stiles back from the edges of sleep. The room is getting brighter; it must be close to dawn. “But nothing I can think to say sounds . . .” He sighs, resting his chin on the top of Stiles’s head. “None of it is right,” he finally says. “None of it is _enough_.”

 

“I don’t remember you ever even wanting to try before.” Stiles winces, curling his fingers apologetically against Derek’s ribs. “I didn’t mean—god.” He laughs; he can’t help it. “It’s sort of amazing how much we both really, _really_ suck at this.”

 

“I was an idiot before.” Derek takes Stiles’s hand in his again. “And I never thought we’d get a chance at this again. I don’t want to fuck it up this time.”

 

“So romantic,” Stiles murmurs, but he’s grinning, wide and genuine as he settles more firmly against Derek’s side. “Go to sleep, Casanova.”

 

They’ll both find a way eventually, will find something to encapsulate everything that feels too big for the restriction of words to convey. But for now they have their own language, a fluency that’s theirs alone.

 

And that is, in the end, so very, very _them_.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, if you like my work, please feel free to follow me on Tumblr! I'm [hungrylikethewolfie](http://www.hungrylikethewolfie.tumblr.com) there; come and say hello! :D


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